


Sympathy and Suspicions

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Duty, Family, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, Politics, Promises, Sympathy, Treachery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Lianne and Gary share their sympathy and suspicions with Gareth after his fall from his horse. Set during In the Hand of the Goddess.





	Sympathy and Suspicions

Sympathy and Suspicions

“In all my life, I’ve never seen you take a tumble from your horse, brother.” Lianne, milk-pale, leaned forward on the chair she had pulled beside Gareth’s bed. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you then,” replied Gareth more tartly than he had intended. He didn’t know if that was because he was frustrated with himself for finally proving to her that he wasn’t an invincible protector but one that could be overthrown by a mere horse or if he was irritated with her for failing to be her usual unstinting source of serene sympathy. 

“I’m not disappointed.” Lianne clasped his fingers and began to stroke them between her own. “I’m worried about you.” 

“No need to worry about me, dear sister.” Gareth gave a tiny, tight smile. “Duke Baird has assured me that it is only a broken leg, and I shall be healed soon. It won’t be too long before I’m on my feet again, discipling disobedient pages.” 

“I’m worried about how you came to fall.” Lianne squeezed his fingers. “You’re one of the realm’s best riders, and your mount is sweet-tempered as a war horse can be trained and bred to be. I don’t understand how this happened to you, and that scares me.” 

“I don’t understand either.” Gareth pressed his lips together. The sensation of being hurled from his horse without cause or warning had been as terrifying and bewildering as being trapped in one of the sudden earthquakes for which the Yamani Islands were infamous. “Until we do, you and His Majesty must double the guards around you at least as a precaution.” 

“We will,” Lianne promised. 

“Good.” Gareth nodded and then asked, “Who has His Majesty appointed to lead the war against Tusiane in my place?” 

“Duke Roger.” Lianne whispered her nephew’s name, and Gareth wondered if she had the same eerily impossible to articulate, crawling spider sensation of unease and treachery tingling in her spine that he did around the Duke of Conte. 

“I would’ve preferred Lord Imrah of Legann, who has protected the country’s coastlines well since his parents died in the Sweating Sickness, or Earl Hamrath of King’s Reach with his experiences in King Jasson’s army.” Gareth suspected but didn’t say that Duke Roger understood more about spells and styles imported from Carthak than he did about strategy. 

“If Duke Roger wasn’t appointed as your replacement, he’d be offended.” Lianne’s fingers trembled around his fingers. “It wouldn’t be wise to offend a mage as powerful as Duke Roger, would it?” 

“No,” agreed Duke Gareth, and he didn’t tell her—because he didn’t have to—that was the problem. “It would be quite impolitic.” 

“Roald and I will be wary.” Lianne kissed Gareth’s cheek then slid her fingers from his as she rose from her chair. “I won’t keep Gary from visiting you any longer. He’s been most anxious to see you since you took your fall. Half the army thought he would knock Jon from his horse when he prevented him from riding to you.” 

“Half the army might have thought that but Jon didn’t.” Gareth knew that his nephew understood that Gary was too smart to be seen punching the Crown Prince in front of a courtyard full of witnesses. Besides Jon and Gary’s most vicious fights had always been confined to words and wits with Jon’s last resort royal commands and Gary’s final defense a deviousness few could match as he aged. Gary’s mind controlled his temper, and Jon would know that. 

“Yes, they quarrel like brothers, don’t they?” Lianne shook her head in resignation as she walked over to the door out of his bedchamber. “I suppose that means they’ve already forgotten the incident except as something to laugh over.” 

“Better than squabbling like sisters,” observed Gareth dryly as Lianne opened the door to his bedchamber, revealing Gary, whose hands were full with a precariously balanced tea tray Gareth ardently wished wasn’t intended for him. “All the bitterest family feuds in the kingdom are between sisters affronted by some stray comment.” 

Lianne chose not to respond to his assessment of the state of sisterly affection in the country as Gary stepped into Gareth’s bedchamber, carrying with him the strong smell of chamomile that Gareth associated not with rest and rejuvenation but with injury and infirmity. To him, it was as far from a soothing scent as possible. 

“I brought you tea, Father.” Gary set the tray on Gareth’s nightstand, looking as awkward as a bull at a ball. Gary with his sharp tongue inclined to sarcasm and his constantly churning mind wasn’t the person one readily envisioned dispensing tea and comfort but that his son would try—however clumsily—to offer him that was all the comfort and support Gareth would ever need for him. Gary might have rolled his eyes at unquestioning obedience—unquestioning anything was likely to get his teeth grinding—and scoffed at any respect that might interfere with snide remarks, but he was a dutiful son in all the ways that truly mattered to Gareth. Not that Gareth ever planned on embarrassing either of them by saying so. It would forever remain a silent, secret understanding between them. “Duke Baird recommended chamomile.” 

Waspishly Gareth wondered if Duke Baird would be so eager to extol the merits of chamomile tea after large, steaming quantities of it had been forced down his throat but to appease his eagle-eyed son he picked up the cup of tea though he cradled it in his palm rather than sipping.

“You should drink the tea.” Gary jerked his chin at the mug in Gareth’s hand. “What I need to talk with you about is important but I don’t want to distress you.” 

“Have you committed murder or high treason?” Gareth arched an eyebrow but didn’t lift the tea to his lips. 

“No, I’m pleased to inform you that I’ve refrained from committing crimes that might end in my execution.” Gary’s mouth quirked wryly. 

“Then nothing you say will distress me, son.” Gareth waved the hand that wasn’t holding his unwished for tea. “Go on.” 

Gary began but didn’t continue, “Father, I’ve been thinking…” 

“That isn’t news to me. You never stop thinking.” Gareth scowled his impatience at his son’s hedging. “Would you care to elaborate on what you’ve been thinking about or shall I have Timon fetch another bush for you to beat around?” 

“Last time I went to the stables, there was a new hostler there.” Gary spoke in a rush as if he might lose the courage to share his suspicions if he didn’t let them spill from him like water released from a dam. “He’d left when I checked there after your fall. Very questionable I would say but we can’t track down for questions since I don’t even know his name.” 

“That makes no matter.” Gareth settled his tea on the tray to conceal his shaking hands. “He would’ve hired here under an assumed name if he planned to attack or assassinate me.” 

“Yes.” Gary didn’t flinch at the mention of assassination but his brown eyes were troubled and turbulent. “Under questioning, he might have yielded the name or names of whoever hired him to act against you, though. I doubt the hostler was behaving on his own initiative.” 

“If he had known them.” Gareth pinched the bridge of his nose. “My unknown enemy might be wily enough to ensure his lowly servants never learn who actually hires them. I can’t imagine whoever sought to harm me will want his act to be easily traced back to him through a hostler.” 

“Since we don’t have a name for your enemy, we might be able to find a motive.” Gary tugged at his chin with a thumb, a sure sign of quick calculation. “What could have driven someone to act against you in this way, Father?” 

“The causes are as numerous as the stars in the sky depending on who counts them, son.” Gareth had seldom felt so world-weary. “A prime minister will always have enemies, and most of them would kill in a heartbeat if the opportunity arose. Men are more treacherous than beasts, I’m afraid. My enemy might be a covetous courtier jealous of our family’s power seeking to steal it for himself or a man who opposes all war trying to eliminate the commander of our forces.” 

“That man would be an idiot.” Gary snorted derisively. Apparently he deemed ambition a more forgivable fault than stupidity. “Regardless of your injury the war will continue but it’ll be bloodier without you to lead it. Next time that man plots strategy he should remove his head from where the sun never shines first.” 

“Stupid men can be more dangerous enemies than clever ones.” Gareth raised a finger to admonish his son underestimating this unrevealed foe. “They’re more unpredictable and more likely to be ruthlessly single-minded in stopping at nothing to achieve their goal. You can predict with logic the moves of a smart adversary or use reason to negotiate with him, but those tactics will inevitably fail against a resolute imbecile.” 

“Yes, Father.” Gary paused then burst out, “I thought whoever did this to you might be in league with Tusaine. It seems to me that Tusaine benefits most from your injury since they don’t have to face you in the battlefield.” 

“You might be right.” Gareth locked his gaze on his son’s. “Look after Jon. Keep a sharp eye on anyone whose intentions are unclear or who hasn’t proven their loyalty to the royal family beyond a shadow of a doubt.” 

“Don’t I always look after Jon?” Gary pointed out with a miffed edge to his tone. 

“No, you normally lead him into trouble.” Gareth crossed his arms over his chest in the hope of making his son see he was serious as lung rot. “This time I need you to protect him from it.” 

“It’s Jon who leads me into trouble.” Gary’s words were only a token protest to guarantee Gareth didn’t get the last word on the subject for he added, somber as his oath, “I’ll guard Jon with my life, Father.” 

“I’ll pray it doesn’t come to that.” Gareth grasped his son’s shoulder, reassuring himself with the solid strength of his only child. “Look out for yourself as well, and don’t die foolishly or I’ll be most put-out with you.” 

“Then I shall endeavor not to die just to avoid you being put-out with me.” Gary gave the mischievous grin that had taunted and delighted Gareth in equal measure since Gary’s milk teeth had grown in and he had started to talk. “I certainly fear your fury more than I value my life.” 

“Excellent.” Gareth allowed himself a thin smile, content to banter with his boy before he marched over to war. “Then I’ve done my duty as father.”


End file.
